


A Person of Worth

by threeparts



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Animal Death, Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4983010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeparts/pseuds/threeparts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Wardens, five Hawkes, ten mabari. A look at Thedas' heroes and their mutts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Person of Worth

**I.**

There hadn't been that many dogs in the Alienage. In the wealthier parts of Denerim there were pretty lap dogs for ladies or sleek hunting hounds for lords, or the famous mabari that trained alongside the soldiers. Others—scrawny mongrels with broken tails or missing eyes—haunted the marketplace and lurked around the kitchen doors of inns each evening. But there wasn't much for them in the Alienage. Food scraps went back in the pot, stew bones were boiled until they were too tasteless even for the mutts, and the middens had little to offer a hungry dog besides the smell. Once, when she'd been younger, Iyana Tabris had seen a great spotted hound bolt past her door, its tail between its legs and curses and a couple of rocks flung after it. It'd pissed on the vhenadahl, her father told her later, his face creased with laughter. Valendrian had just about had a fit, and Iyana wondered if the hahren didn't realise how the elves usually kept the damn tree watered.

So Iyana was... shy when she saw the dogs at Ostagar. Massive things, solid and muscular with crushing jaws and powerful hind legs that were bred to bring down a man or a horse in combat. It'd been Daveth's teasing about the  _scared little elf_ that had pushed her into the pen with the mabari, holding the muzzle in a hand that she refused to let tremble. But it'd been the red-rimmed eyes of the sick dog that'd pushed her to find the flowers that could heal it.

When the kennel master talked about imprinting she hadn’t truly understood, but she had understood the trust in those soft brown eyes, when a dog strong enough to tear her apart bowed its head and let her run her fingers through its coarse tan fur. However much the dog hurt and snapped at its kennel master, however old its lineage or costly its breed, it had faith that the scared little elf would be the one who could save it. No one outside the Alienage had ever trusted her like that before.

She didn't know whether to be insulted or proud.

Later—when she had fought back more corruption, death and horror than she had ever known could exist; after she had talked with kings and Keepers, fought creatures of myth and women of legend, and threatened half the nobles in the country; when she walked at the head of an army that trusted her to take back a kingdom—she remembered what it felt like, the first time any creature actually believed she could fix things. And she dug her fingers into Bear's tan fur and knew she did not walk alone.

 

**II.**

Caval had walked beside Avia Cousland since she was first learning to crawl, and her first steps had been taken with her hands buried in his ruff for balance. The mabari was one of the finest in their kennel—dark brown fur and golden eyes, handsome and superbly trained—but he never minded when the baby tugged a little too hard on his ears, or the toddler stumbled over his paws, or the child led him through mud puddles on her latest adventure. Foreign visitors could be shown all the great sites of Highever: the bustling port, the fine markets, the ancient Cousland fortress and its view over the Waking Sea—but they would always walk away with their fears of Fereldans confirmed when they found the youngest child of the Teryn in a stained tunic and dirty boots, wrestling with a dog the size of a small carthorse in the Great Hall.

Caval and Avia slept in the same bed, they shared meals (much to the cook's disgust), and, until her tutors finally complained about her distraction to Eleanor, the dog would sit in on her lessons. And so they carried on, inseparable and infuriating, until one afternoon when she came back from a history lesson to find him curled up in his favourite spot in the Atrium, his body warm but his chest still and his golden eyes sightless. Caval was thirteen years old and his heart, the kennel master said, had simply given up. Avia was twelve years old, and her heart was broken.

The first time Bryce suggested she take a look at the newest litter of pups, she simply burst into tears. The second time, she threw things at him. The third time, it was Eleanor who closed the door and spoke to her daughter in a quiet voice at great length. And when she emerged, her daughter followed her with her head bowed.

They visited the kennels together. Caval was from an old line, and had sired a good number of pups in his time. Some of the pups had been trained, neutered and sold as war hounds or hunting dogs, and some the Couslands had kept. The ones they had kept had pups of their own, and it was to a litter of Caval's grandchildren that Eleanor led her daughter.

Avia did not pick out a new mabari that day, or even that month. Some wounds are too raw and too deep to heal so easily. But when the scabs began to form and her voice didn't waver quite so much when she spoke about the dogs, she went to the kennels and sat and waited for one of the dogs to choose her.

Caval is lighter in colour than his namesake, his eyes a little more orange than golden, but he carries the blood as proudly as any other Highever mabari and he's followed his mistress as faithfully as his grandsire ever did. And visitors to Vigil's Keep are always a little startled to find the Warden-Commander wrestling with a dog the size of a small donkey in the fortress's throne room.

 

**III.**

Warden-Commander Skitch Brosca first met Copper, the mabari with the gleaming—yes—copper coat and the liquid brown eyes, six months after she’d slain the Archdemon. He’d been a gift from some noble or other, one of many made to the Fereldan Wardens since the battle for Denerim. She’d patted him awkwardly on the head and left the recruits to fawn over him. The battlements needed to be inspected, repairs ordered.

The Blight was over, but there was still so much to be done. It felt as though she’d been running to keep from falling for the last few months, ever since she’d first stepped foot out of Orzammar’s gates and seen the sky—empty, bright and huge—arching overhead. Duncan had steadied her with a hand on her shoulder until she could stand alone, and told her that she’d have to get used to it on the way: Ostagar was far, and the darkspawn crept closer every day. She’d nodded, pulled her hood up, and kept her gaze down. One foot in front of other—there was no time for hesitation where darkspawn were concerned.

There hadn’t been time for anything else either after they reached Ostagar. No time to show the surfacers how to avoid the splatter of darkspawn blood when they cut one open, no time to save a different, now long-dead dog from the taint when the entire country was threatened by a Blight, no time for Alistair’s hesitation when Duncan sent them away from the battle. Skitch had her orders, and she’d seen what darkspawn did to people, and to the world that had once belonged to the dwarves. She didn’t hesitate then, or in the months following, when the only two Wardens left in Ferelden realised how little they truly knew and how much they had yet to do. She wouldn’t hesitate now.

Warden-Commander Brosca tried not to let the rumours that followed her to Amaranthine bother her as she took command of Vigil’s Keep. She had made hard decisions. Choices others had condemned her for, choices that she refused to regret. Skitch had done what she had to, and the Archdemon was dead. That was the beginning and the end of it.

There was still so much to do, so many preparations to make. Recruits to train, complaints to address, darkspawn sightings to investigate. But now, she decided, as she stood on the battlements and listened to the recruits fuss over their new mascot, perhaps there would be time to breathe.

 

**IV.**

There was no  _time_ , and Darathen Mahariel thought he was choking. Everything had happened so fast since Tamlen had touched the mirror. His friend had died,  _he_ was going to die, and every day seemed to bring them a little closer to the end of the world. He’d been riding that first wave of fear and adrenaline since Duncan had lead him away from his clan, and every step forward brought the Blight a little closer.

The darkspawn frightened him, the human armies frightened him, seeing Jory cut down by an unhesitating Duncan frightened him, and when Darathen finally swallowed from the goblet he  _had_ choked, on the taste of blood and the fear lodged in his throat.

He had spent every day since the disastrous battle trying not to break from his new companions and run back to his clan. Only the fear of being sent away again, alone this time, kept him moving forward.

When the genlock had burst out of the bushes before the three of them, Darathen’s nerve had snapped, and it was only the huge, red-gold creature leaping past him onto the darkspawn that stopped him bolting for the trees. Alistair had cheered when the animal had set upon the creature, but Darathen had to choke down vomit when the beast tore the thing’s arm right off.

He recognised the dog from Ostagar. He’d helped it selfishly, hoping to put the moment of leaving the safety of the camp off, hoping to put off the Joining and the battle he knew would follow. He had been selfish, but the dog had lived because of it, and when it trotted up to him, stubby tail waving frantically, he had flung his arms around it and sobbed into its fur.

It wasn’t the last time Darathen would be selfish. It wasn’t the last time he would be frightened; uncertain of the way forward and afraid of what lay behind. It certainly wouldn’t be the last time he’d want to hide behind someone bigger and stronger than himself, hoping they could bear this burden for him. But having Luath by his side helped. The mabari was brave—fearless, even—leaping into battle without hesitation, just as the strange Qunari warrior did. The dog forgave him when he made decisions out of fear, decisions that not even the sweet-natured Chantry sister could forgive, her faith in him lost at last high in the mountains. And Luath still trusted him, even on the nights when the entire camp was silent and heavy with unspoken accusations of choices he had made or had fled from entirely.

Darathen wanted to break the silence, tell them that none of this had been his choice, none of it had been what he wanted, that he was as lost and uncertain as they were. But he dug his fingers into the ruff of the hound beside him, closed his eyes, and prayed to the gods that it would be over soon.

Warden Darathen Mahariel killed the Archdemon, and the history books said he died doing it, his body lost among so many others in the chaos of the burning city. The surviving Grey Warden, now King, delivered the eulogies of the fallen, the red-gold mabari sitting patiently at his side, still waiting for his master to return home.

And somewhere off the coast of Antiva, a young man, still full of fears and regrets, finally felt like he could breathe again. He squeezed his golden-haired lover’s hand, and whispered one last apology into the sea breeze.

 

**V.**

After twenty-three years in the Circle Tower, the journey to Ostagar was a succession of new delights and sudden nasty surprises for Cait Amell. She had never slept outside or prepared her own meals, never handled money or walked such a terribly long distance. She'd certainly never fallen into a river and been forced to sleep in wet clothes, or caught a cold that healers hadn't burned away before it could be passed onto the entire tower.

They taught the history, politics and economy of Ferelden in the Circle, of course. But to hear the accents of people from all over the country—and beyond!—and to eavesdrop on conversations about bannorns and Arls or debates over the price of a bale of wool was better than any lecture. She knew the theory, it was just that the reality was so much more... real!

She tried to explain it to Duncan once, about how she'd read that tanneries were smelly but until they'd passed one by Lake Calenhad she hadn't really understood the writer's description of "acrid stench", and the girl sounded so utterly delighted by the discovery that the Warden had to lean against a tree until he stopped laughing and could regain his composure.

And Ostagar! A succession of new faces, and people that seemed as curious about the young mage as she was about them. She spoke to everyone that would listen, and listened to all that they would tell her. She had been especially fascinated by the war hounds and asked the kennel master a thousand questions. Where were they bred? How were they trained? Would they be afraid of the darkspawn? Was it really true that they'd descended from wolves owned by the Dane she had read so many stories about?

The man was softened by her curiosity and they spoke at length. Cait was disappointed to learn the Tevinter origins of the mabari—she'd wanted to believe that the stories she'd devoured were true—but she'd still been eager to put those years of studying herb lore to good use.

She'd been terribly eager about a lot of things, those first few weeks.

The brindled mabari had licked her hand in gratitude and she had laughed at the new sensation and stroked its silky ears.

When Daveth and Jory lay dead before her, their blood staining the ancient stones and Duncan's still-drawn sword, she thought of the last few weeks and remembered everything she had done for the first time, and thought of everything she had yet to try. She drank deeply from the Warden's cup, no regrets in her heart.

And then Duncan was dead, the King had fallen, Ostagar was overrun, and they had all been betrayed by a man they had trusted. When she finally had a moment to mourn, her tears were for a lot of things: Duncan, the sweet dog with the soft ears, and her own innocence.

They were days out from Ostagar when they were attacked by a group of darkspawn stragglers. And when a dark, brindled shape had burst from the undergrowth and flung itself at a hurlock bearing down on her, Cait had laughed until she cried and then flung her arms around the filthy dog and sobbed into its fur. She called the mabari Dane, for a hero and for a lie she had once wanted to believe.

The survival of the dog softened the hurt, but the lesson had been a hard one and she would not allow herself to forget it. When she felt like the number of things she didn't know would bury her under their weight, or when she threw up from fear of the monsters in the dark, or when she wept as she made her way through the body-strewn corridors of the Circle Tower, she remembered. She remembered loyalty and betrayal and stories, and living so that she would never have anything to regret.

When a friend came to her one night with a story that could save her life, she listened... and then she walked away. She sat in the plain room she had been given and stroked Dane's silky ears, and remembered precious lies and truths hard won, and all the regrets she never wanted to have. And then she picked up her staff, gathered her companions, and carried on.

Cait Amell asked questions because she wanted to learn the truth of things, even when it hurt. And the truth is that most stories are just lies wrapped up in pretty bows, and there are very few lies worth dying for. The truth is not always easy, but at least you know what you're getting. No time for betrayals, no time for regret.

But sometimes the truth makes for a good story all on its own, and the truth is that when they laid out the Warden that had slain the Archdemon on her funeral pyre, a silky-eared mabari sat among the mourners, staring into the flames. And when the Warden's bones finally crumbled into ashes and the last embers of the pyre faded, the loyal hound curled up next to it and never moved again.

 

**VI.**

The name Thorn had been Carver's idea. Bethany and Amelia rolled their eyes at him, but the mabari had been a gift from dad, and Bethany had been allowed to call her cat Socks, so Thorn it had been. The black dog adored him and Carver adored it right back, and when their mother had said it would probably follow him to the Void and back she hadn't known how right she'd been. But the other Wardens at Amaranthine seem fond of it, and word is that even the king compared it to the Hero of Ferelden's own dog, the mabari who really  _had_ followed its master through the Veil. Carver couldn't be prouder, and his letters back to Kirkwall drip with smugness. Amelia is glad for him, even if she misses the silly mutt. And his dog too, come to think of it.

 

**VII.**

The name Charlie had been Carver's idea. His sisters had rolled their eyes and teased him, but the name had stuck, even after the brown and white mabari decided it liked Carver's older sister better and spent the nights on her bed and the days following her around like, yes, a puppy. Alice knew Carver resented it—another thing his sister had stolen from him, he'd once said when anger was making him stupid—so she tried not to make a fuss of the dog when he was around. And then Carver—her hot-headed little brother who always had something to prove—was dead and the dog didn't seem to care, and she'd wondered if maybe he wasn't right.

She can smile about it now; a cold little twist of her lips. She hopes Carver's happy, wherever he is, and she'll never say how glad she is that her brother didn’t have to learn how much he had left for the world to take.

 

**VIII.**

Bethany had taken the dog when she’d fled with Merrill and the other apostates. It was for the best, all things considered. Having a known mage in the family was inconvenient after the Rebellion. Better that people believed that she had died with the rest of her Circle, so long as the dwarf kept his trap shut. The dog had become a nuisance, anyway. It was a fine reminder to the docile Hightown nobles that Leo Hawke was a Ferelden, and all of them knew the value of a pure-bred mabari, but the stupid beast was too big, too boisterous, and if he wanted to be taken seriously in Kirkwall the animal would have to go. Bethany would take care of it, and hopefully it would keep his sister out of further trouble.

Leo took his time adjusting his collar. He would be formally sworn in as Viscount in a few hours, and he hadn’t spent seven years scrabbling in the dirt and mud of this city to have anything ruin the moment.

Perhaps, he thought absently, he should get a cat.

 

**IX.**

Bethany had found the puppy on their way to Gwaren. It was a tiny, pale thing, weak from hunger and too young to be away from its mother, but Lena’s sister had cradled it with a fierce protectiveness, and even Leandra had softened as she watched her youngest daughter feed it scraps of bread and the soldier’s ration of dried meat soaked in water. The small pup with its big puzzled eyes helped soothe the hearts of the three who should have been five.

Bounce never grew as large as other mabari, but he was boisterous and playful, Bethany’s gangly pale shadow. The women had to lock him in the house on the day they left for Bartrand’s expedition, wincing as his howls followed them down the Lowtown alleys.

When Lena returned from the Deep Roads alone, empty and aching, to face Leandra’s weeping the dog’s puzzled stare, she knew where the fault lay. Her sister had been safe among smugglers and thieves for a year with the dog at her side. Lena had not been able to protect her for a week in the Deep Roads.

Bounce followed Lena after that, though he never seemed to understand why his true mistress had left him. Lena tried to please him—playing his favourite games, letting him sleep on her bed—but the dog was always distant, always waiting, friendly but never as joyously loving as he had been with Bethany. Every time the front door opened, he lifted his head, ears cocked and his big eyes full of hope.

Lena knew how he felt. Three years later, she too turned to the door every time it opened, expecting to hear her mother’s footsteps in the hall, or Isabela’s raucous laughter, or even Bethany and Carver’s bickering voices. Merrill told Lena stories when the nightmares woke her, told her of the brave hounds that chased away the evil things in the night, and Lena hoped silently, desperately, that it was true.

Perhaps it was. Bounce died with a puzzled look in his eyes and a Tal-Vashoth spear through his chest; a spear that would have struck Lena if the silly, boisterous dog hadn’t leapt up before it. Merrill helped her bury him there on the Coast, where there would always be plenty of sticks to fetch and gulls to chase, and asked her elven gods to watch over him, just as he had watched over the Hawkes. Lena buried her face in Merrill’s hair and wept, and wondered when the gods would take away the last person she had left.

 

**X.**

Rosie Hawke won Angus in a game of cards during her first year in Kirkwall. He was only a few months old, black and tan and solidly built, and the mercenary she won him from said another refugee had traded the mabari in return for being smuggled into the city. Gamlen had grumbled when she’d brought the dog home and Carver had tried to win its friendship with the aid of some dried fish, but it was to her mother that Rosie handed his leash.

“He’ll look after you when I’m not around,” Rosie had told her, and the dog was as good as her word. Angus stayed with Leandra on the long days when Carver and his sister fought with the Red Iron, and kept her company on the nights Gamlen abandoned his sister for the Hanged Man.

Carver had been angry when Rosie had told him he wasn’t going with her to the Deep Roads, and angrier still when Rosie asked the  _dog_ to watch the family while she was away. When she returned to find her brother gone and her mother pale-faced, Angus still at her side, Rosie wondered if her words had been provocation or prediction. She didn’t regret them. Carver’s choices were his own, and he had declared his loyalties clearly enough.

Rosie asked the dog to look after Leandra every time she had to leave, and didn’t much mind when the others laughed, or teased, or rolled their eyes. Angus followed Leandra everywhere, warding off pickpockets or drunks in the markets, remaining alert and watchful as she took tea with old friends. He was quiet and well-behaved, unless someone threatened his mistress.

Later, after a frantic Angus had led her through dark streets and Rosie had witnessed more horror than she thought she could bear, Bodahn told her that Leandra had apologised to the dog before she’d left, locking him in the house with a giddy laugh and a promise to be back before midnight. Leandra’s choice had been her own, and Rosie lifted her chin and thanked the mabari. Her mother had not, in the end, died alone.

Ten years after Rosie Hawke won the quiet pup in a card game, there is grey around his muzzle and grey threading through her hair, and one last time she tells him, “Look after her while I’m gone.” Isabela, armed to the teeth and at the head of a pirate crew, laughs and kisses her thoroughly, and doesn’t think to ask if Rosie’s sure she’s making the right choice.


End file.
